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Constantly Outwitted By My Cat…
Some of you have met him. Many of you have heard about him, or read about him.
I’m talking about Psymon. My ginger-and-white cat who’s about seven years old, who first appeared in my life during the winter of 2018-2019 as part of a twosome, usually accompanied by a larger (older?) black cat, in my fields and down in my woods. I’d try and get them to come up to the house, and I’d leave food out for them. The food would disappear, but I never really knew who ate it–the cats? The raccoons? The crows? The possums (or is it “posseye”)? Best not to ponder too many other alternatives, of which there are many out here.
I worried about how cold and snowy it was, and how–or if–those cats would survive the coyotes, the owls, and the raptors. I did notice that–at some point–the black cat disappeared. And it wasn’t long after, mid-March of 2019 sometime, that I opened the downstairs door onto the walkway, and a ginger-and-white young male cat, tail waving proudly, strode into my house and into my life, as if he owned them both.
Phew. What a stink. The phrase “toxic masculinity” doesn’t even begin to do it justice. And so into a large dog crate complete with food, water, and litterbox he went for a few days, while the female feline population (all spayed) in the establishment just stared at him with goo-goo eyes, and while I sorted out some time for him with the local veterinarian.
Once that little problem was solved, we moved on. And haven’t looked back since.
He might be the smartest cat that’s ever lived. Certainly the smartest one I’ve ever known. He unscrews the lids from bins of cat food. He takes unopened tubs of treats with the “pull-off” ring and strip, grabs the ring in his teeth and tugs the strip off, and then pops the lid, punctures the protective plastic inner lid with his teeth or claws and goes to town (he’s quite good about tipping the contents on the floor and sharing them with his friends). He climbs up and down ladders to get where he wants to go. And he’s fond of joining his favorite human in the shower whenever the mood strikes him. (He likes to march around and observe from the rim of the bathtub, too, particularly when there are scented bubbles to scoop up in his paws and throw around enthusiastically. He’s not so wild about the one-or-two occasions on which he’s slipped and fallen in, though.)
I named him Simon because reasons. Timing is everything. It was the late Mr. She who came up with the correct spelling of his name.
During the couple of months my Christmas decorations are up (from somewhere around Thanksgiving until early February), the library ladder to the loft has to have a folded blanket threaded back and forth through its rungs to stop him from climbing up it and getting onto the beams and destroying my joyful seasonal efforts. So far, this has successfully thwarted him. But ever since I saw Poot (very unexpectedly, I don’t think anyone was more surprised than she was) jump almost five feet from a pile of cushions on the window seat up onto the main beam, I take care not to provide even that small opportunity for Himself (who, mercifully, seems to have missed the sight or any ideas it might have given him when it comes to piling things on top of each other to reach a desired goal).
Psymon is enormously friendly. He’s well known on Ricochet for almost abandoning me one weekend, after a visit from a dear member and his wife who parked their RV in my driveway for the stay. As they were preparing to leave, I suddenly realized I couldn’t find Psymon (who does like to go outside from time to time), and we went on the hunt. On about the third try, we located Psymon, hiding under the driver’s seat in the RV, fully expecting to be transported to Wisconsin where (he swears) he’d been promised flying lessons by one of my guests. He’s still a bit miffed about the whole episode, and I try not to mention it anywhere in his hearing. (Hope he’s not reading this. Sigh.)
He also struck up an uncanny friendship with Ron, of “Ron and John,” the two wonderful men who did such a great job of my house remodeling a few years ago. One of Ron’s favorite memories is looking up one day and–startlingly–discovering Psymon staring at him through the gap that had to be cut in the shower enclosure for the water control assembly to be installed. (I think I forgot to mention that Psymon is about the nosiest pet I’ve ever encountered. The term “curiosity” doesn’t cover it. He is the Elon Musk of cats. He’s just plain nosy, and he insists on being part of whatever activity is going on, whenever it’s going on, wherever it’s going on, and whether it has anything to do with him or not.)
Most recently, I’ve embarked on a small experiment with “hydroponic” gardening, using small inexpensive growing systems I’ve purchased for the purpose. They work, and I’ve harvested acres of basil–I manage to consume a considerable amount of several types of basil in my culinary pursuits–and greens to this point. (Note to the pedants. Don’t take the term “acres” in the preceding sentence literally. It’s just a bit of “serious” healthy exaggeration.) I’m pleased with the results, and that I can now grow some herbs and greens during the months I otherwise could not, and that I can have fresh greens available without another trip to the grocery store and an expenditure of $3, $4, $5 or so for the product and an equal amount spent for the fuel each time. Not too long until it’ll all pay for itself, I think.
Enter, Psymon.
He’s discovered my new enterprise, and–of most interest to him–the accessories I need to make it “go.”
I had been keeping them in a small drawer (those who sew [in the stitching sense] may recognize it as from an old Singer treadle sewing machine) on the counter by the plants.
Sir found it last week and began to amuse himself by removing playthings one at a time, throwing them around, chewing on them, hiding them, and otherwise causing mayhem in the ranks.
So, I removed it and–temporarily–stuck it in the cupboard with the hi-fi equipment and closed the door on it.
Well, he found it in the cupboard with the hi-fi equipment. So he simply opened the door with his paw and helped himself to whatever he liked. All that was left for me to imagine was Himself going from cupboard to cupboard, from door to door, in the middle of the night while I was sleeping, until he found what he was looking for. EUREKA! 💡
I’ve moved them again. So far, they’re safe. But this morning I found more evidence that he’s still investigating…
I know–as with everything else–it’s only a matter of time.
PS: I cannot, in good conscience, ignore how charming and kind Psymon was to an interloper, known around here as “Penny the Cat.” I had my own “Penny,” a dog, many years ago. But “Penny the Cat” belonged to my best friend Andrea, who died of lung cancer in October of 2022. I’d told Andy I would take her cat (who also suffered from cancer), to relieve her of just one of her anxieties and worries, and because it was one of the only things I could do anything about, before she died.
Here are Psymon and Penny. He’s the only one of the few here who really took her to heart:
What an extraordinarily kind creature.
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My wife and I love cats, She. We have had one or two or 3 for all of the 40 years we have been married. Psymon seems remarkable!
OMG. Totally him!
Sounds like Psymon could become an Internet star like Milo the Chonk
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/REnB7NgX6Cs
Psymon was so close to being part of the D III clan of cats.
I guess we would have returned him….eventually.
What a fun post – thank you!
My late husband and I had a cat who was somewhat similar to Psymon. He started life as “The Dude” (Big Lebowski reference), but then gradually became Hosehead. After we moved to Lake City, he became Lake City Jake and, sometimes, Cow Cat. He was big – 22 lbs. – and a total thug. In our previous house, we had to install locks on all the interior doors because he figured out how to open them. Kitchen drawers and cabinets were a piece of cake – cat treats and catnip had to be kept in a latched jar. He regarded everything in his sight as his.
Here he is escorting the house lamb and one of the dogs through the tulips early last Spring, like Captain von Trapp leading his children over the Alps…
He reminds me of our Napoleon who collects mail and other items and brings the to our bedroom. He also talks a lot. Here he is among his collected trophys.
Loved it.
Thanks for the post She. I’ve never had a cat but Psymon is definitely a character. Did he become Psymon because your husband liked Wodehouse and his character Psmith?
Well, that’s certainly a possibility! And thanks.
Wonderful story!
I reckoned it might be that, or maybe because they thought the cat was psychotic.
Or psychic….
Oh, holy cow.
I’ve made quite a bit of hay lately in a couple of posts, where I’ve been sneering at the headlines in The Telegraph, and at the often half-baked activities of my native countrymen–especially those of the political class. JD Vance pretty much covered it all last week in his Munich speech, and said everything that needs to be said, so I can probably let that go for a bit.
But today? Jackpot!
Can Cuddling Sheep Really Reduce Stress?
Our intrepid reporter tried six different relaxation techniques, one of which was “The Herdwick Experience,” hosted by Yew Tree Farm in England’s Lake District.
He says:
And he quotes Dr Rachel Harland, a consulting psychiatrist:
The conclusion is that yes, cuddling sheep is an effective and relaxing therapy. The numbers (yes, they collected stats so that they could compare each technique!) indicate that his responses to the “relaxation questionnaire” post-sheep cuddling indicated a much more relaxed state and that his heart rate dropped 31 points from 85 beats-per-minute to 54.
This was, actually, the most effective therapy of the six, in terms of lowered heart rate. (The best, baaa none.) And it was in the middle on the relaxation scale, when measured by the responses to the questionnaire. (Nothing to be sheepish about there, either.)
Who knew?
If the thought of setting up a small business weren’t so daunting and stress-inducing, I might give it a go!
“Hormones like oxytocin…
I didn’t know oxycontin was a hormone, but I have been told it can make you feel pretty good…until it doesn’t. I know, I know, I couldn’t help it. The spelling was just too much alike.